


They Danced

by Lesetoilesfous



Series: Harmony [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mage (Dragon Age) Rights, Oral Sex, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:41:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24808702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesetoilesfous/pseuds/Lesetoilesfous
Summary: A post-script to my ficA Song of Love from Long AgoSome weeks after the fall of Kirkwall, Fenris and Anders rest for the night in an inn before going on to Ansburg. There's a band playing, but Anders doesn't dance. Fenris wants to understand why.Fluff with a little smut, all about comfort and loving intimacy.And Hades and Persephone, they took each other's hands. And brother, you know what they did? They danced.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age)
Series: Harmony [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1794421
Comments: 14
Kudos: 89





	They Danced

Outside the inn, a storm rages. They’d ended their travel for the day in a small village forty miles outside of Ansburg. On the morrow, weather permitting, they’ll reach the city itself. From there, they plan to move on to Antiva, and then to Rivain. They have some way to travel yet but, Fenris reflects, thus far the journey has been much smoother than it in truth had any right to be.

Inside the inn, a band of travelling minstrels battle back the storm with music and laughter. One, an elvhen woman with short black hair, plays furiously on her fiddle. Beside her, a human woman plays a flute, swaying with her eyes shut as she does so. On her other side, a barrel chested human man sits on a rough wooden stool and plays a battered old cello. He’s red faced and grinning. The inn’s patrons have shoved aside a few tables and chairs to make an improvised space for dancing on the hay-stewn wooden floor. They grab one another by the elbows and spin, laughing, kicking up their knees in the traditional Marcher dances that have become so familiar to Fenris in his freedom. 

He glances across the table at his lover. Anders is watching the dancers, but for once his expression is unreadable. The firelight dances in the gold of his eyes, and the inn smells thick and sweet with smoke and hay, sweat and hounds. On their table, a fat tallow candle dribbles wax onto the wrinkled wood. The light of the candle flame glitters against the green silk scarf Fenris had given the mage to hide the scar on his forehead. He’s folded it into a ribbon, and tied it neatly back over his copper gold hair. It suits him, but Fenris misses the way that his hair falls into his face without it. Stubble grazes the sharp line of Anders’ jaw, red and gold and thick. Fenris wonders whether he’ll shave when they get to the city.

In the corner of the inn, the minstrels’ tune races faster and faster, and the laughing, breathless patrons attempt to keep pace with it. Dust falls from the old, low wooden ceiling of the room, and the dancers’ feet beat a rhythm to match the thunder outside. Occasionally, a flash of lightning flickers through the firmly bolted wooden shutters. By the bar, an old mabari hound wearing Ash Warrior paint whines and hides its head under its paws. Next to it, a human woman with white hair bends and drops it a little fat on which to chew, stroking its great head with affectionate familiarity before she straightens. Fenris finds himself smiling a little, and lets himself enjoy the feeling of it in this warm, laughing place full of light and music.

He looks at Anders again. His lover is barely a foot away from him, but he looks as if he is in another place entirely. Fenris frowns, and glances down at the food on his plate. It’s untouched. After a few weeks on the road, Fenris has learned that Anders is not averse to eating so much as he is possessed of a ludicrously fast metabolism, and a tendency not to eat when he is unhappy. 

When he’s merry, Fenris has seen Anders wolf down portions that would put a Karasaad to shame. He takes a simple, honest joy from good food that eases something in Fenris’ chest. The meals they’ve shared together are some of his more treasured recent memories, and Fenris hopes to add many more. He had thought, perhaps, that this inn could have been amongst them - the influence of Antivan flavours on Marcher agriculture had made for a well-spiced haunch of roasted meat, thick with rosemary, thyme, oranges and honey. 

However, Fenris has learned by now that no amount of coaxing will bring the mage to eat. Instead he unfolds a clean piece of linen from his pack and busies himself with wrapping the meat and bread. It will still be good later, when it is cold. Anders barely notices him.

In the corner, the human man gets to his feet and bellows. “Last dance before the break!” His voice is deep and rich, and it rings against the walls. Outside, the thunder rumbles. Fenris glances up at Anders, and catches something like pain passes across his expression before it returns to its former impassivity. Fenris almost regrets teaching the man to bluff, though he’s not sure whether this is a skill he had taught him, or if instead it is simply a mood he had not often seen before their leaving Kirkwall.

On the table beside them, a grinning elvhen woman tugs a human to her feet. The human protests, but she’s ruddy faced and grinning, so Fenris doesn’t pay it much mind. He watches the lovers as they trip towards the little crowd. The elf has bright red braided hair. The human is dark, with thick black curls. The elf winds her elbow through the human’s, skipping as the minstrels begin their song. The human stares at the elf with such open affection in her dark eyes that Fenris finds himself looking away, turning instead to an elderly human couple who are attacking the dance with all the vigour of a pair twenty years their junior. It’s a sweet, merry sight, and Fenris taps his foot as he watches. He’d seen Anders and Hawke engage in many of these jigs at The Hanged Man. They were a popular occupation for Fereldans on the weekend, when the pub flooded with refugees after a long week in The Bone Pit. Fenris can almost imagine the ghost of Anders in the crowd now - in a whip of red hair, and a laughing smile, long freckled limbs and slender shoulders.

Fenris looks again at his lover. Rain beats against the wooden shutters of the inn, tapping an insistent percussion for the music to accompany the great cymbal crash of thunder. Within, the dancers shout a ragged, “Ho!” They throw their arms up into the air, and clap and leap, laughing and swearing and calling to one another over the growing noise of the band. Fenris’ ears ring with the noise of it, but there’s an honest joy to this that he has not yet fallen out of love with. It is so different to the studied elegance of Tevinter balls. On the table, Anders’ long fingers tap a silent accompaniment to the dance. Fenris does not ask if he wants to join the crowd. If he had, he would have done, and Fenris does not yet know why he hasn’t. He is sure the mage will tell him in time. 

In the corner, the minstrels come to a mad, brilliant end, throwing their instruments up into the air as they do. They are sweating and breathless with exertion, chests heaving, and the inn cheers for them. The elf and the human woman Fenris had seen before press closer to one another. The elf touches the human’s cheek. Fenris stares. Such open affection between their races was rare in the Marches. He wonders what it says for the kind of city they will find in Ansburg. 

Across the table, Anders gets abruptly to his feet. He looks at Fenris, and gives him a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m shattered. Shall we?” 

Fenris says nothing, not trusting himself not to challenge Anders’ lie, and knowing the man will be unwilling to discuss his reason for it in public. Instead he nods and gets to his feet, feeling the old stabbing ache of lyrium in his skin. When he looks up Anders is watching him with open concern. Fenris smiles, feeling a wave of affection wash through his chest. “I am fine. It has been a long day.”

In the corner of the inn, the minstrels are chatting politely to the dancers. The human man and the elf both hold tankards, whilst the flute-player is eating a sausage with her fingers. Anders glances at them, and his stomach rumbles loudly enough for Fenris to hear it. He glances back towards his now bare wooden plate, and frowns. Fenris chuckles, and lifts the linen parcel. “I thought perhaps you might enjoy it better, later.”

The smile Anders gives him then is honest, wide and relieved. “Thanks.” The word is bright and breathless with sincerity, and Fenris feels his heart skip a beat like that of a lovestruck fool. He nods, and ducks his head in a half-hearted attempt to conceal his flush as it burns over his cheeks and up to the tips of his ears. “It is nothing,  _ amatus. _ ” 

Anders’ lips quirk at the endearment, and a little laughter returns to the honeyed gold of his eyes. Together, they wind between patrons who smell thickly of beasts and the fields. Anders’ hand falls to Fenris’, loosely tangling their fingers as he pulls him towards the narrow, crooked wooden stairs, beaten down by generations of travellers’ footfall through this place. When he glances back at Fenris, his expression is playful, cheeks scattered with freckles brought up by the sun. “Let’s get to bed.”

Fenris grins at his lover, and lets himself be pulled up the stairs.

* * *

Their room is tiny but serviceable, dominated by a bed stuffed generously with straw that is barely contained by the old, soft cotton sheets tucked over the frame. A thick quilt lies over the mattress, dyed in dull reds and blues. The pillows are fat and clean. In comparison to their bedrolls, the thing is luxury. At the foot of the bed is a chest with an old lock in which they can store their things, and beyond that jammed into the corner is a tiny wooden table and two solid looking chairs. Another tallow candle is set onto the table here, and it smells of spice and animal fat as it burns, flickering bravely against the shadows of the night. 

Outside, the storm still rages. Beyond their door, along the narrow corridor of other bedrooms, there are soft voices and occasional footsteps. Distantly, there’s the high sound of muffled moaning, and an occasional, distinctive series of rhythmic thumps. Anders’ shoulders lower as Fenris shuts the door behind them, and he turns to Fenris brightly, shaking off the melancholy that had been lingering over him all evening as if it were of no consequence. 

“Ah, take a whiff of that.” Anders sucks in a breath demonstratively as he does so, narrow chest swelling. “Sex and candle wax, cow-shit and ale.” Anders’ smile creases the corners of his eyes, spreading into crooked crow’s feet. “Smells like home.”

Fenris raises an eyebrow and says, as carefully as he can, “I had not imagined that the Circle would smell like this.”

Anders snorts, and Fenris takes that as reassurance enough that he hasn’t offended him, carefully propping his greatsword against the inn’s stout walls. He rolls his shoulders as the weight of it is removed from his back. The lyrium burns on his skin. 

“Yeah, but the Circle wasn’t  _ home _ . This place smells like The Pearl. I lived there for a month before the templars dragged me back.” Anders sighs, cheerfully. “It was the first place that had really felt safe since I was a kid.”

Fenris frowns, and gratefully accepts the potion Anders presses into his hands with a knowing look, giving his lover an honest smile before he drinks it. Gold Dust is thinner than elfroot potions, and it tastes like the smell of expensive perfume. Fenris always expects it to make him sick. He can feel the magic of it now, fizzing through his stomach. He doesn’t fear it. “The Pearl...You mean the brothel?”

Anders grins. “That’s the one. Speaking of which.” His voice drops as he steps closer to Fenris and plucks boldly at his armour. “What say you lose this and let me show you a little of what I learned there?”

Fenris rolls his eyes, but he does begin to unbuckle his armour. Judging by the delight in Anders’ expression, that’s victory enough. The mage, for his part, strips off his coat and folds the heavy material on top of the chest at the end of their bed. He doesn’t touch the scarf around his head. 

Fenris lays his armour over Anders’ coat. When he bends, Anders’ hands find his shoulders, gently running over his back. Fenris leans back into his lover’s touch, and huffs a little when Anders begins to knead the muscles of his back. Anders clicks his tongue. “I should do this more often. You’re tense as a blighted stone, love.” Fenris hums, resisting the urge to explain that that was a common side effect of marching through the countryside for weeks on end with a greatsword on his back. He’s reluctant to do anything that will jeopardise the way Ander’s long, strong fingers are working in firm circles through the knots on his back.

Below them, the minstrels start on another merry jig. The sound of the violin laughs up through the floorboards over the thump of the dancers’ stomping. Anders leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of Fenris’ neck, and Fenris tilts his head to let him. Anders takes the invitation, stepping closer, and his hair tickles Fenris’ skin as he leans down to press another soft, gentle kiss to the juncture of Fenris’ neck and shoulder. Fenris feels heat begin to pool in his gut, and is halfway to turning and kissing the mage properly when the other man’s stomach gurgles, loudly.

“Andraste’s tits.” Anders curses, laughing a little as he presses his forehead into Fenris’ neck. 

Fenris grins and turns, gently pushing him towards the table. “Eat, love. You can ravish me later.”

Anders huffs, but lets himself be pushed. He drops into one of the chairs as Fenris sets down the linen wrapped bundle of his food in front of him. He’s already picking at it when he speaks, “What if I don’t want to be the one who does the ravishing?”

“Then I suppose I shall have to ravish you.” Fenris says, with an exaggerated sigh, and glances up to meet Anders’ smile with one of his own. He sits on the end of the bed, picking up his armour and getting a pot of leather wax from his pack. “Though I would like the massage, too.” 

“I offer a broad range of services.” Anders smiles at him, shutting his eyes as he eats in an expression of honest, simple pleasure. Fenris watches him and feels a proud swell of satisfaction in his chest as he does so. He is well. He is happy. He is safe.

It’s enough.

Oblivious to his train of thought, Anders swallows and sucks his fingers. “Maker, this is good! Is that a honey glaze?” Anders squints at the morsel of roasted, honeyed meat between his fingers as it will share its secrets with him. 

Fenris grins a little at his lover as he wolfs down the rest of the food, and begins to work the wax into the leather of his armour. “Perhaps you could ask the landlord. He seemed rather proud of his cuisine, earlier.” Fenris had overheard the man speaking at length with an Orlesian traveller, who had seen fit to compliment the chef personally. Judging by the man’s enthusiastic response, he was sure that he would welcome another inquiry along similar lines. 

Anders hums and eats the bread, swallowing before he speaks. “Good idea.” Once he’s finished he sighs, and turns back to Fenris with an expression that is no less hungry than before. “Now. Where were we?”

Fenris braces himself. He considers, briefly, playing along and enjoying the simple pleasures of his lover’s attentions before a long and restful sleep. Outside, thunder rumbles across the sky. Fenris looks down at the cloth on his hand and his newly waxed armour. Anders breaks the quiet before he can find the words to do so himself.

“Oh no, I know that look. That’s the ‘I’m uncannily observant and I’ve identified something you don’t want to talk about’ look.’” 

Over their heads, rain soaks into the inn’s thatched roof and trickles through the rafters. Fenris raises an eyebrow at Anders, whose face is painted cream and gold by the candlelight. “That is not how I would express it.”

Anders rolls his eyes and flaps a hand, quick and dismissive. “Yeah, but you’re all...stoic and laconic. I’m not.” He folds his arms, then, and Fenris notices with a hint of pride that there is not quite so much loose material in his shirt around his stomach as there used to be. “Come on. Out with it.”

Downstairs, the minstrels begin another dance to muffled cheers and applause. Fenris runs his hands over the newly damp surface of his armour, and forces himself to look up and meet Anders’ eyes. “You would have danced. Before.” He says the words quietly, as if that will soften the question behind them.  _ Why don’t you dance now? _

Anders flinches anyway, and Fenris curls his fingers in his lap. The potion has begun to take effect, and the sharp ache of the lyrium sewn into his skin is a dull throb. He wishes that he were a physician of the mind. He wishes that he could treat Anders’ grief with a potion, and ease his pain the way his lover had taken the bite from his scars. But Fenris has enough demons of his own to understand that such a thing could never be so simple, or so easily remedied. 

Anders gestures to the green scarf on his forehead, and the scar beneath it. He bites the inside of his cheek, and glances at a small hole in the floorboards in the corner of their room. “Can’t risk it, right? It’s not like tranquil mages dance.” Anders laughs, once, mirthless and bitter. Fenris frowns, even as Anders looks up at him, eyes bright and gold in the candlelight. “I mean, imagine the looks on their faces.” His voice breaks, and Fenris gets to his feet. Anders shuts his eyes and looks away.

Fenris crosses the space between them, lifting his hand to his lover’s back but not touching him. Under the simple cotton of his shirt, his newest scars are pink and livid. “Anders.” He says the man’s name softly. Below their feet, the minstrels play. 

Anders shakes his head and clears his throat, sitting back. “It’s fine.” He gets up, and doesn’t look at Fenris as he does so. “Let’s just go to bed.” 

Fenris does touch him, then, lightly catching Anders’ elbows between his fingers. Anders doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t look at him either. Fenris frowns and lifts one hand to his cheek, running his fingers over the thick, soft rasp of his stubble as he turns his head to face him. “It is not fine.” He smiles, and runs the pad of his thumb over the wash of freckles on Anders’ cheeks. It seems that every day they spend in the sun, more appear over his lightly tanning skin. “You are still a terrible liar, love.”

Anders sighs, and moves to hold Fenris’ hand to his cheek as he leans into his touch and shuts his eyes. His eyelashes are long and tawny gold, and there are faint wrinkles pressed along his forehead and around the corners of his eyes and mouth. “Yeah, well. You’re in love with me. That’s cheating.” As he says the words, he presses a kiss to the inside of Fenris’ wrist. 

Fenris squeezes his cheek, and curls his fingers around Anders’ other arm, holding him gently. “Perhaps.” He concedes. For a moment, the two of them simply stand together, listening to the storm as it rages around the inn in which they stand. 

Downstairs, the minstrels begin another, slower song. It’s romantic and lilting, and the flute sings sweetly through the floorboards, twining with the gentle notes of the violin. Fenris knows it.  _ The Wolf and the Rose _ is a famous waltz from Amaranthine, written in the days long before the land had belonged to the Grey Wardens. Anders’ breath catches. Fenris breaks the quiet. “Dance with me?”

Anders opens his eyes then, and his expression is open and honest and a little nervous. Fenris tries to ignore his own fear, and meets his lover’s gaze, dropping his hand from his cheek and tangling their fingers before straightening their arms. Both his and Anders’ hands fall to one another’s hips, and Fenris flushes as Anders’ laughs. “It might be easier if I lead. What with the height difference and all.”

Fenris frowns. “I am not used to doing anything else.” 

Anders presses a soft, dry kiss to Fenris’ forehead. “That’s my problem, isn’t it?” 

Lightning flashes between the wooden shutters of the window in their room. Fenris looks up at Anders, and beneath the laughter in his eyes there’s an honest kindness that he trusts implicitly. The violin shivers through the floorboards. Fenris swallows, and nods, and wonders why he suddenly feels so afraid. Anders’ lips quirk, and his hand folds around Fenris’ waist as Fenris lifts his arm to Anders’ shoulder. His other hand tightens around Anders’, their arms held carefully at shoulder height and outstretched beside them, strangely formal in their humble surroundings. The room smells of soap and hay and honeyed meat. 

Slowly, carefully, they begin to step into a little waltz. Below their feet, music sings sweet and soft through the rafters. Anders is tall, and strong, and he smells of sweat and herbs and magic. Fenris finds himself staring at his chest, and the soft blond hair that curls through the v of his shirt. He flushes, and looks away, staring instead at their clasped hands, and the low stout walls of their room, painted thickly in white rough plaster. 

“I did not think you knew how to waltz.” Fenris admits. He feels Anders’ laugh blow against his forehead, as his hand tightens around his waist and pulls him a little closer. Fenris lets himself be pulled, and feels the heat between their legs as they step back and forth, knees nearly touching with every movement. 

“An uncivilised Fereldan apostate like me, you mean?”

Fenris frowns, and looks up to search Anders’ expression for any sign of insult. But the man is only smiling at him, crookedly, brown eyes bright with amusement. Fenris relaxes as he elaborates,“The Circles did not seem suited to dancing.”

Anders hums and considers that, squeezing their hands together as he gently turns them. “Court mages are a thing, though. And you have to know how to waltz if you plan to play that game.” Below them, the cello joins the flute and the violin, adding a deep, rich rhythm to the higher music. “I’m kind of surprised you only know how to lead. It’s hard to imagine…” Anders wrinkles his nose, “It’s hard to imagine that being allowed.”

Their hands are warm where they’re pressed together, and sweating a little. Fenris watches the line of Anders’ throat as he swallows, and wonders whether his lover is as nervous as he is. Under his other hand, he can feel the faint rough texture of Anders’ scars through his shirt. 

“I would not be allowed to lead a magister, no.” Fenris shrugs, a little awkwardly, and lets Anders gently push him back as they sway. “But Danarius would not have danced with me in public. Relationships between men are -” Fenris hesitates, glancing up at Anders, and tries to ignore his own unease as he sees how attentively his lover is listening to him. He continues, awkwardly “- frowned upon. There is no such thing as a relationship with a slave. Whilst abuses of our bodies are commonplace,” Fenris swallows the bile in his throat, “emotional intimacy in such a relationship is anathema to them.” Fenris finds himself suddenly, desperately wanting to speak about anything else. Anders’ thumb rubs gently over his side, and Fenris lets the sensation pull him back out of the whirlpool of his memories. He finishes quickly. “Occasionally Danarius saw fit to have me dance with the other slaves, on feast days and other festivals. As a display.” Anders scowls, and Fenris smiles at him a little. “It was hardly the worst thing he had me do.”

Anders shakes his head, and pulls him closer. Fenris is a strong man and a competent warrior. It is not arrogance so much as experience that tells him he is a swordsman of rare ability. As a result, he cannot remember the last time that anyone had felt the need to protect him, and certainly not anyone who knew him. But when Anders wraps his arm around his waist and bends their elbows to pull their hands closer to their bodies, Fenris realises abruptly that the mage is protective of him. Magic prickles along Anders’ skin, and when Fenris glances up there’s a flash of blue light in his eyes. 

Fenris stares at him. It’s strange enough to be unafraid in the face of this. Stranger still, to know that this magic is burning for him - that he has some measure of control over it, and the man who wields it. The thought is at once liberating and terrifying.

“It’s not the dancing I have a problem with. It’s the fact that you were ordered to do anything at all.”

The frustration in Anders’ voice is achingly familiar. It is the helpless anger of a man who can do nothing, now, to stop those who had abused his lover, and is left alone instead with his own futile rage. Fenris forsakes the next step of the dance to get up onto his toes and press a kiss to Anders’ lips, leaning on their joined hands as leverage. When he drops back onto his heels, he meets Anders’ eyes. “It is alright,  _ amatus. _ It is not happening now.”

Anders frowns, and his freckled forehead folds into a map of shallow wrinkles. “It will never happen again.” His voice deepens a little as he says it, and a rush of magic washes into the air around them, prickling over Fenris’ tattoos. Fenris doesn’t flinch.

“It is good to know that your spirit will aid us in the endeavour.” He smiles a little, to soften the comment.

Anders shuts his eyes, mouth quirking as he listens to the voice inside his head. After a moment, he looks at Fenris. “Justice wants you to know that he will. Insert repetition and great strength of feeling here.” Fenris laughs, and Anders grins at him, pressing another kiss to his head. Fenris shuts his eyes and relishes the warmth of it as Anders gently begins to move them again. 

Downstairs, the violin begins a trilling solo, and Anders lifts their hands to spin him. Fenris lets him, flushing, and when he turns back to Anders the mage catches his lips in kiss. Anders’ hand squeezes his hip, and he murmurs, “You’re blushing.”

Fenris stares at his throat, instead of forcing himself to meet his eyes, feeling the warmth of his leg as it brushes close to his. “I feel like a child.” He admits, ears burning. Anders hums, and moves their hands, gently depositing Fenris’ on his shoulder before dropping his own to the other side of Fenris’ hips, stepping somehow closer still. The space between their bodies is warm and dark. Outside, thunder crashes over the fields. Anders presses their foreheads together, and the silk of his scarf is cool against Fenris’ skin. The long line of his nose bumps Fenris’, and his breath blows hot against Fenris’ lips, smelling of ale and honey.

“That’s kind of the point of dancing, I think. To be happy. To be foolish. To be young.” 

Fenris tilts his head, brushing their noses together, and meets Anders’ eyes. He can feel the tickle of his eyelashes on his skin. “To be unafraid?” He asks it softly.

Anders stops moving. Below their feet, the song begins drawing to a close, with a sweet mournful melody singing in the flute. “Are you afraid?”

Fenris thinks of how nervous he had been before, taking the mage’s hand. He searches for the feeling now. He cannot find it. All that he feels instead is warm, and happy, and safe. Quietly, he says,“No.”

Anders grins, and brushes their cheeks, and his stubble scrapes against Fenris’ skin. “My work here is done.”

Sweetly, he kisses him.

* * *

Together, they tumble into bed. Fenris moves to pull off his tunic, and pauses when he sees the way Anders is looking at him. He lowers his hands, “Would you like to do this?” 

Anders grins, and sits up. “I  _ would _ .” He drops his hands below Fenris’ hips, slipping his fingers under the fabric of his tunic and running his warm palms over his thighs, before pushing his hands up and over the bare skin of Fenris’ stomach. Fenris sighs and tips forward, resting his forehead against the mage’s shoulder. He feels his lover’s laughter as he does so, and Anders dips his head to press a kiss to the corner of his jaw, and his neck, and his shoulder. Fenris shuts his eyes and loses himself to the feeling of it, until Anders moves and pulls at his tunic, and he raises his arms. He has not often been undressed by a lover, and is most accustomed to doing it himself. But the way Anders looks at him: as if he is beautiful, as if he is beloved, erases any anxieties Fenris might have had about the act. Anders smoothes his hands over Fenris abdomen and up his chest, running them over his shoulders.

“Maker, you’re beautiful. You know that?” Fenris shrugs, a little stiffly, and looks away. Anders leans forward and kisses his cheek. “Love? Please look at me.” Fenris does, and Anders runs his thumb over the lines of muscle that frame his belly. “I’m not just saying that. I really think you’re beautiful.”

Fenris grimaces. He feels something tight and ugly clenching in his chest. Outside, the storm has eased, and rain patters gently against their wooden shutters. The fires of the inn have kept it warm, but the room is cool, and Fenris is glad of Anders’ body heat beside him. 

“It is difficult to believe.” Fenris forces himself to admit, biting the confession between his teeth. Anders’ lips curl in a rueful smile, and he lifts a hand to tuck Fenris’ hair behind his ear, careful to avoid the tip of it. 

“I’d guessed as much. “ Anders says, gently, and Fenris feels a flush of shame rushing up over his chest and the back of his neck. He curls away a little, and Anders’ hand tightens around his side. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re...incredibly well adjusted, all things considered.”

“Except when I ‘go all chest-punchy’?” Fenris says, mostly to see Anders’ smile, and return some levity to the space between them. Anders grins at him, and kisses his nose.

“Except when you go all chest-punchy.” He affirms, then dips his head to trail a line of kisses along Fenris’ jaw and down his neck. “Although,” he says, conversationally, as he goes, “to be fair I think that’s a perfectly natural reaction. It’s not like you pull the heart crushing act on people who don’t deserve it.” Delicately, Anders takes Fenris nipple between his teeth, biting down a little. Fenris feels a sharp spike of heat go straight to his groin, and tightens his hands on the loose material of Anders’ shirt.

“Must you discuss such things in bed?” He asks, making an effort to maintain some kind of clarity. The battle is promptly lost when Anders licks his nipple, flicking it with his tongue whilst he rolls the other between his thumb and forefinger. 

Anders looks up at him from beneath his lashes, cheeks pink with pleasure, like nothing so much as some debauched fictional courtesan. “Would you like me to stop?”

“Talking, yes.” Fenris smiles a little as Anders pouts, cheated out of his game. But then he gently pushes Fenris back on the bed, and Fenris goes willingly as the mage trails a line of kisses down his stomach. Anders gets onto the bed with a soft sigh of fabric as he kisses him. He pauses when he reaches the top of Fenris’ breeches, long fingers dipping beneath the tight fabric, knuckles brushing Fenris’ thighs. 

“May I?”

Fenris smiles at him. The mage has always stopped to ask permission, every time they’ve done this. He feels something inside of himself unwind a little, and nods. Anders grins, and grasps him gently through the fabric of his breeches, giving his cock a gentle squeeze with his long, warm hand before peeling the fabric away. Fenris lifts his legs to let Anders remove the things, and relaxes against the pillows, breathing in the sweet scent of the straw with which their mattress is stuffed. It feels like heaven against his aching back. Lazily, he moves a hand to Anders’ head, petting his gold and copper hair. It’s lank and a little greasy from their days of travel, but Anders sighs and leans into his touch, and Fenris gently scratches his scalp. 

Then Anders leans down and presses a gentle kiss to the head of his cock, before dipping and taking him into his mouth. Fenris sighs, feeling the familiar warm, wet heat of his lover as his tongue wriggles against the base of him. The silk of the scarf he’s wearing brushes against Fenris’ stomach, and the cotton of his shirtsleeves rubs against his thighs. Fenris continues to stroke his hair, fisting his other hand in the sheets on their bed as Anders begins to suck him, cheeks hollowing around his length. With a shift of fabric, Anders moves, propping himself up a little, and pulls back before dipping back down again, adding his hand and using his own saliva to help with the slide of his touch. He hums around Fenris’ cock, and Fenris sighs on a moan, hand tightening in his lover’s hair. 

He feels Anders’ smile around him, and his hair tickling his thighs, even as his other hand moves to gently roll his balls between his fingers. Fenris grunts, slowly rolling his hips into Anders’ mouth, watching as he swallows him whole. He’s so beautiful like this: eyes shut with concentration, face flushed with arousal, lips pink and wet and stretched around him. His long fingers are tight and warm, skilled as they play with him, and his tongue runs along the slit of his head, sending sparks shooting behind Fenris’ eyes. He follows the trick with a long, strong lick along the base of him, and Fenris feels heat racing through his body as he begins to jerk his hips a little faster. Anders hums again and increases his pace, matching Fenris’ hurried thrusts.

“ _ Amatus _ , I’m going to -”

Anders sucks on him, hard, and pulls Fenris over the edge. He swallows him down as he cums, long throat silky and wet around Fenris’ cock, squeezing against him until Fenris pushes gently at his head and Anders pulls back with an obscene, slick pop. Fenris stares at his lover: eyes dark with want, mouth red and wet with sex, and lets go of his head to beckon him closer. He feels as if he could melt into the mattress at his back. He doesn’t think that would be such a bad thing. Anders grins, and crawls up the bed beside him, slotting himself into Fenris’ embrace. Fenris curls an arm around him and pulls him closer, allowing himself a pleased smile when Anders huffs in surprise at the strength of the gesture. 

When his heart has returned to something akin to its usual pace, he turns his head on the pillow to see Anders watching him, smiling a little. Fenris tilts his head, and presses a long, deep kiss to his lips. Gently, he runs his hand down Anders’ arm, stroking it. “I love you.” He says, honestly. Anders grins at him, and presses a quick peck to his lips. 

“I know.”

Fenris smiles, then, and shuts his eyes, pulling the mage closer, reassured by the warmth and weight of the man in his arms, lulled into relaxation by the softness of their bed and the sweet satisfaction of sex. Anders sighs happily and presses closer. The hot, hard length of him presses against Fenris’ belly, and Fenris opens one eye. “Would you like - ?”

He’s not sure what, specifically, he’s offering. He thinks he’s offering whatever he wants. Anders smiles at him, and reaches up to brush his hair behind his ear. “Touch me?”

Fenris nods, pleased that he doesn’t really need to move. Anders catches his hand before he slips it between their bodies and slowly, lasciviously sucks on his fingers. Fenris watches him through half-lidded eyes, feeling his spent cock twitching with interest. “I love you.” He says, again, and means _ I want you,  _ and means  _ you’re beautiful _ , and means  _ never leave me. _

Anders shuts his eyes and runs the flat of his tongue along the pads of Fenris fingers, dipping his head and sucking on his knuckles before pulling back and doing it again. Fenris watches him, and feels the lazy burning heat of lust coiling in between his thighs. Carefully, he pulls his hand back and slips it between their bodies, pushing beneath the soft material of Anders’ breeches and into the warm thatch of hair around his groin, wrapping gently around his cock. 

Fenris curls his other hand around the back of Anders’ neck, gently running his fingers up through his hair to cup the back of his head. As he begins to stroke him, Fenris shifts closer and kisses him, deeply. Anders’ hips jerk, and he moans into their kiss, and Fenris smiles against it, tilting his head as he licks into Anders’ mouth. As they kiss, slow and lazy and intimate, Anders moves his hand to guide Fenris’, increasing his pace a little and squeezing around them. Fenris runs his thumb over the head of Anders’ cock, and feels the slick warm trail of precum coat his skin. Anders’ whimpers a little into his mouth, and Fenris imagines he can taste the sweetness of the sound. He keeps going, and Anders’ hips begin to grind more urgently against him, bumping his own sore cock. Fenris ignores it, shifting to adjust their position and squeezing the hot, silky heat of Anders in his hand, biting gently on his lower lip as he does so. Anders gasps, and Fenris pulls gently on his hair. With a sound like surrender, Anders comes apart in his hand.

Fenris gently pulls him through it, though he considers Anders’ ruined shirt and breeches ruefully when the haze of lust has faded a little. Anders is, apparently, thinking the same thing, because he frowns down at the mess they’ve made of him before sitting up and pulling his shirt over his head. Fenris sits up too, mostly for a chance to kiss the soft curling hair on his chest. 

Anders sighs, and presses a kiss to the top of his head before pulling off his breeches. He wipes himself off with a cloth, and passes it to Fenris. Fenris does the same, but he watches Anders carefully as he lifts a hand to the scarf on his head. He looks away from Fenris when he pulls it loose, dropping it onto the floor beside their bed.

In the corner of their room, the tallow candle has nearly burned down to the quick. Fenris watches as Anders walks, naked, to blow it out. His long, slender back is covered in a thick mess of livid pink scars, layered thickly over white and silver ones beneath them. His ass is pale and round and covered in a smattering of freckles, and his thighs are strong and fair, though they sag a little in places with age. His knee is a mass of thick scar tissue, gnarled by an old injury. His bare feet are as long and fine as his hands. Anders has the scars of a soldier, but with his fair hair and slender limbs, he could easily be some Orlesian dancer. Fenris indulges the thought as Anders bends, gracefully, tucking his hair behind his ear as he blows out the candle.

Darkness settles over them, thick and soft as eiderdown. Around them in the inn there’s the loud sound of snoring, and occasionally the soft murmur of voices. The minstrels have stopped, now, and from downstairs there’s only the sound of clinking bottles and shifting furniture, as the landlord and his staff tidy the mess away. Fenris blinks, and lets his eyes adjust, listening as Anders steps across the floorboards and back to him. The mattress sinks as Anders gets onto it, and Fenris reaches out and catches his lover’s searching hand. Anders sighs, and one of his long legs hooks over Fenris’ thighs, cool for the chilled air of their room. Rain taps quietly against the wooden shutters.

Tentatively, Fenris reaches out, tracing his lover’s lips before rubbing the thick stubble of his jaw, up to his cheek, running his thumb over the long line of his nose before moving to his forehead. Anders stiffens, and Fenris stops. “Does it hurt?” His voice is barely a whisper in the dark. He doesn’t see so much as feel Anders’ grimace, even as the man wraps one long arm around his waist. 

“No. Itches, sometimes. It’s just…” Anders sighs again, shorter this time and irritated. Fenris waits, shifting his head against the thick feather-stuffed pillow beneath his head. After a while, Anders says, softly, “it’s just ugly, is all.” 

As gently as he can, Fenris traces his fingers over the raised sunburst scar on Anders’ forehead. The ridges of it are rough and bend a little beneath his fingertips. He can barely hear Anders’ breathing. After a moment, he pulls his hand away, letting it fall to Anders’ shoulder and rub soothingly over the soft, narrow curve of it. 

“So? What’s your assessment?” Anders’ voice is low with false humour and brittle with trepidation. Fenris moves, then, and tilts his head to press a long, soft kiss to the scar on his forehead. Anders’ breath catches. Fenris moves, dragging his lips from the rough skin of the scar to press another kiss to his lover’s temple, nosing at his hair, before moving to kiss his cheek, and the corner of his jaw, fumbling in the dark. He bumps a kiss against his nose, and moves at last to his lips, kissing him firmly, chastely. When he’s satisfied, he presses their foreheads together. 

“There is no part of you that is ugly to me,  _ amatus. _ ” Anders’ mouth twists, and Fenris kisses him before he can speak again. “You wear the marks of your suffering. As I do.” Fenris pulls, and his tattoos respond, glowing dully in the darkness. Anders stares at him, made ethereal by the light of the lyrium. Fenris squeezes his bicep. “They are testament only to the strength and courage it took to survive their making.” He meets Anders’ eyes, then, willing him to understand. “It is only one of the things I love about you.”

The corner of Anders’ mouth curls a little into a small smile, and his eyes lift to the markings on Fenris’ forehead before falling to his chin and neck. His smile falls. “Does it ever get easier?”

Fenris lets his lyrium grow dim, and blinks against the afterimage of it behind his eyelids. He thinks about the feeling of people staring. He says, quietly, “Sometimes.” He runs his thumb over Anders’ arm, and the wiry rope of muscle there. “It helps, I find, to have someone who loves you for it.”

Anders laughs, and shifts to take Fenris’ hand, pulling it to his mouth and pressing a gentle kiss to the heel of his palm. “Wherever did you learn that?”

Fenris huffs, and drags his lover closer, pushing his knee between his legs and wrapping an arm around his back. The mattress shifts beneath them, and the cotton is soft against his bare skin. Anders hums and curls around him, long fingers curling loosely at the back of Fenris’ head. Fenris kisses him, again. “An apostate. Loud-mouthed, rude, terrible at cards.” Anders huffs, and swats him half-heartedly with the hand on his hips. Fenris grins, and presses a kiss to the tip of his nose. “Kind. Brave. Wild.” Anders is quiet, the only sound between them the soft rasp of their breathing. Outside the wooden shutters of their room, the rain falls. Around them, the inn is briefly silent. Fenris kisses Anders’ cheek. “The most beautiful man I’ve ever known, in body, mind and heart.”

“Sounds like I have competition.” Anders teases, sleepily, mumbling as the Fade calls him sweetly into its singing mists.

Fenris smiles against the warmth of his lover’s cheek, and presses another soft kiss to the scar on his forehead. “You should meet him. I think you’d have a lot to talk about.”

* * *

Both of them wake before dawn. Fenris cannot shake the habit of a lifetime, and whilst he has known Anders to sleep past daybreak when he is injured or ill, he has not yet seen the man sleep well in an unfamiliar place. Both of them are accustomed to the life of a fugitive. Sleeping deeply in strange locations was one of the quickest ways to get caught. 

Outside the closed wooden shutters of their room, birds begin to sing in the new day from the trees above the fields. The shadows of their room are grey and lighter now with dawn, and Fenris runs his thumb slowly over the rough texture on the scars of Anders’ back as they lie together. Anders sighs, and his breath tickles Fenris’ cheek as he presses closer to him. “I’m in love with this bed. Do you think the Chantry would let me marry it?”

Fenris huffs a soft laugh. “They are more likely to permit the bed to marry than an apostate.” He moves, pressing a kiss to his lover’s forehead, and the rough texture of the scar there. Beneath him, Anders hums a little mournfully.

“True.” He wriggles, and pats the mattress with his hand. “I’m sorry, love. It’s not to be.”

“You are absurd.” Fenris smiles, pulling back to watch as Anders opens his eyes. They’re gold and laughing.

“Yeah, but you love me.” 

Fenris grins and kisses him then, gently, a long lingering press of their lips, still warm from sleep. When he pulls back, he rolls onto his side and lifts a hand to Anders’ head, running his fingers through his lover’s hair. Anders hums and leans into his touch. Fenris runs his fingertips over the freckled shell of his ear. “For my sins, yes.”

Anders snorts, and presses a kiss to the heel of his palm. “Whatever would Andraste say?” He rolls away then, stretching his long limbs. His feet poke out from beneath their quilt and Fenris finds himself subjected suddenly to a nose full of armpit hair. He huffs and pulls back and Anders laughs a little, before he’s catching him and pulling him back, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck and another to his cheek. “No, no, come back, I’m sorry.”

“You should be.” Fenris mutters, but he’s still smiling, an expression Anders catches as he leans over his head to kiss his cheek again. Anders’ hair falls around his face, tickling Fenris’ lips and nose as he kisses him before he falls back down onto the pillows, wrapping his arms around Fenris’ belly and pulling him closer. Fenris lets himself be pulled, settling snugly into the curve of Anders’ long, warm body.

“So. Ansburg.” Anders hums, conversationally, pressing a kiss to the back of Fenris’ head.

Fenris frowns at the thick, raised plaster on the walls, painted there with a rough brush that left its marks on the stone. “Ansburg.”

“What do you think it’ll be like?”

Fenris shrugs. Downstairs, there’s the soft sound of clinking glass and voices as the landlord and his staff begin to set up for the day. “It’s along the Minanter, so, maritime.”

Anders snorts, and his breath tickles the back of Fenris’ neck. “You say that the way other people say dog shit.”

“You know my feelings on the subject.” Fenris reminds him, attempting to be stern. Anders presses a soft kiss to the back of his neck.

“I promise we’ll avoid the fish market. It’s still a wonder to me that you managed to live in Kirkwall for nearly a decade.”

“I had Hawke.” Fenris says, easily, and then rolls, pressing into the soft give of the mattress. Anders is watching him with bright amusement and a soft, warm affection that he only wears so openly in the dark. “And I had you.”

Anders raises an eyebrow. “I’d have thought I was one of the factors that counted against your staying in the city.”

Fenris inclines his head. “You were, at first.” He moves, and runs his fingers through Anders’ hair. “But then I fell in love with you.” Anders flushes, and Fenris traces the warmth of it on his cheeks. “How can this still make you blush, now?”

Outside their room, there’s the creak and clatter of wooden doors as their neighbours get up for the day. Anders shrugs his narrow shoulders, and the bed whispers with the movement. He’s still blushing. “You say it so...easily. You sound like a character in one of Varric’s romances.”

“I  _ am _ a character in one of Varric’s romances.” Fenris reminds him, and grins when Anders rolls his eyes. “As are you. Though I think you are better suited to it.”

Anders snorts. “Better than the handsome elf with magic tattoos who fought impossible odds and won his freedom with nothing but his courage and the strength of his sword? Not likely.” Fenris flushes, now, and Anders grins as he does so, smile crooked and full of mischief. Anders moves, and presses a kiss to the corner of Fenris’ mouth, and another to his cheek, before shifting to murmur in his ear. “Made you blush.” His voice lilts into a sing-song as he teases him. Fenris scowls, but tilts his head when Anders pulls away in a silent request for another kiss. Anders obliges him. 

In the fields, there’s the soft lowing of cows, and on the road the rattle of a distant cart. The birds still sing. Anders lies back in the bed. Fenris looks at him: at the long line of his nose and the sharp curve of his jaw. Sunlight bleeds through the cracks in the wooden shutters of their window. “What are you thinking?” Fenris asks, softly. 

Anders turns to him, and there’s a faint frown along his brow. “Do you want to do something about it?”

Fenris raises his eyebrow, struggling to follow the path of his lover’s thoughts. It tended to wind erratically. “About what?”

Anders shifts onto his side, moving to slip one hand beneath his head as he looks at him. “The slaves. In Tevinter. We’re going all this way to help my people. What about yours?”

“I have no people.” Fenris answers, without thinking. Anders says nothing. He just watches him, and waits. Fenris swallows against the sudden discomfort in his chest. He tries to gather his thoughts. They flinch back from him like frightened birds. “I do not know.” He admits, eventually. 

Footsteps thump softly through the corridor outside their room, and Fenris moves his gaze to their short locked door. Anders keeps watching him. Fenris swallows again, and sits up, letting the quilt fall into his lap. “It is hard to imagine that there is anything to be done. We cannot wage war on the imperium.” The words taste bitter in his mouth. Next to him, Anders sits up too, and then his long fingers are resting on Fenris’ cheek, soft and warm from their bed. Gently enough that Fenris could breathe and break his grip, Anders tilts Fenris’ head to face him. 

“We cannot wage war on the imperium alone.” Anders corrects him, gently, lowering his hand. Then he leans forward and kisses him. When he pulls back, he’s smiling, but there’s a fire and a fury in his eyes that Fenris recognises. “Did I ever tell you that I’m friends with the king of Ferelden?”

Fenris raises his eyebrows. He believes it. It would not be the most outlandish thing that Anders had told him which had proven to be true. “Ferelden cannot go to war with Tevinter. It has barely begun to function again, after the last Blight.”

Anders hums, and rubs at the stubble on his jaw. “Agreed. But that’s not why I mention it. I met him when I was a Warden.”

“The Grey Wardens are politically neutral.” Fenris interrupts, before he can continue. Anders grins at him.

“No shit. Really? Tell me, what else do you know about the Order?” He’s teasing, now, and Fenris glares even as he flushes. But then Anders softens, and continues, thoughtfully. “It always struck me that if you wanted to fight a magical kingdom, you’d need enchanters of your own.”

The high whine of a mabari hound on the floor below them makes Anders jump, and Fenris reaches out to gently stroke his lover’s arm before he replies. “So we free the mages and then take them to war? That is two impossible battles that have not been won in centuries.”

Anders shrugs, and smiles. “Maybe. But I’m a Grey Warden. Impossible odds are kind of our thing.”

“Former Grey Warden.” Fenris corrects, and moves to kiss the scowl from Anders’ lips. “I will consider it.” He concedes, then turns to get out of the bed. “But first we need to learn whether anything has survived of your network.”

Fenris dips a cloth into the basin of water provided, and slowly begins to rub away some of the sweat of sleep and sex from his body. The water is cool and the cloth is rough, and both are welcome sensations on his skin. Behind him, Anders sighs and stands too, with a creak of the wooden floorboards. “An apostate’s work is never done.”

Fenris huffs a laugh and dries himself off, beginning to dress. “No. I suppose it isn’t.”

They leave at sunrise. The road is long, and easy. They walk hand in hand.

**Author's Note:**

> There we have it! As in the summary, this is a post-script to A Song of Love from Long Ago. I just wanted to give the boys a little kindness, after all that suffering. 
> 
> Big thanks to my fantastic beta-reader, [ in-umbra-gratia](https://in-umbra-gratia.tumblr.com/), who is both the funniest and the best ([you can also find Luna on Ao3, here!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_umbra_gratia/profile))
> 
> As always, if you'd like to come hang and chat DA with me on tumblr, you can find me [@lesetoilesfous](https://lesetoilesfous.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Stay safe, thank you for reading!


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